The DCI Isaac Cook Thriller Series: Books 1 -3

by Phillip Strang

  ‘Jess, how are you?’

  ‘Fine. What’s going on?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You don’t phone for a few days, and then you’re out with Richard Williams’ latest bit of skirt.’

  ‘Jess, that sounds like jealousy.’

  ‘Of course it is. Do you mind explaining?’

  ‘I needed someone to bring a new perspective to the case.’

  ‘What a load of hogwash and you know it. You fancy her, admit it.’

  Isaac, momentarily stunned, did not know how to respond. Should he tell her the truth? That the woman was MI5 and potentially very dangerous.

  No, he decided. His boss had summed up the situation succinctly.

  ‘She’s a beautiful woman, Jess. I’ll agree to that. This case is going nowhere, and until it does, we cannot be together.’

  ‘You’re just spinning me a line.’

  ‘It’s the truth. I had to see if she had overheard something. I’ll explain later, but Williams is central to all this.’

  ‘Because of his friendship with Marjorie Frobisher?’

  ‘Exactly!’

  ‘But you have her now. You can ask her.’

  ‘Whether she will tell us anything is hard to say.’

  ‘If I find out that you slept with Linda Harris, this romance is over before it started.’ She hung up the phone. Isaac realised that he would need to address the deception another time. He knew he would need to tell her the truth. He did not look forward to that day.

  Wendy, having returned with her signed expense sheet, bid farewell to Isaac and left the office early. It was the promised night out with Bridget. Next day, she would have a pounding headache and a rasping voice. A friend was coming over to her house to look after her husband that night, as she did not expect to be home until late.

  Later that day, Farhan phoned to say that Marjorie Frobisher was awake and talking, but still mildly sedated. The doctor’s advice, another two days before she would be fully coherent. He also said that Robert Avers was there as the dutiful husband, while his young lover had left the waiting room at the hospital in disgust. Neither of the two children had been seen, and the media was a damn nuisance and interfering with the normal business of the hospital.

  Chapter 35

  Quinton Scott arrived at nine in the morning as agreed. His client did not. As a Queen’s Counsel, Scott was extremely expensive. He was a busy man, but as Isaac noticed, he did not seem to be in a rush to move on. Quinton Scott, if asked, would have said the meter’s running, it all goes on the bill.

  Farhan had made himself available, substituting another detective to keep a watch on Marjorie Frobisher. Wendy had not shown up, phoning in to say she wasn’t feeling well and would be in late. Isaac knew, from the voice at the end of the phone, the nature of the illness.

  It didn’t matter as she had little to do – all missing persons accounted for.

  Approaching 10.30 a.m. and with no sign of Williams, even his QC was starting to look agitated. Isaac felt it was time to find the missing man.

  A phone call to his office, no answer. Strange, Isaac thought. The production lot yielded no results either. Williams’ home phone and mobile, no answer as well.

  Isaac felt there was cause for concern. Williams may have hidden a witness, may have committed an indictable offence, but he had one of the best Queen’s Counsels in his corner. His unavailability made no sense.

  It was clear the man was not coming; the QC left soon after. The interview was rescheduled to the next day, same time.

  Wendy came into the office shortly after. She did not look well. Isaac could have expressed some sympathy, told her to take the rest of the day off, but there was a job for her. A job for both her and Farhan – find Richard Williams.

  His house, a three-storey terrace in Holland Park, was the best possibility. They drove out to the house. After two minutes knocking on the door, the last twenty seconds vigorously, they realised that no one was at home, or, at least, no one who was willing to answer the door. Unable to break the door lock with a swift and hefty shove, they relocated to the back of the house, down a narrow alley to one side. The door into the kitchen at the rear was unlocked.

  Entering, they moved slowly around the ground floor, up to the first floor and, finally, the second floor. There on the floor in the main bedroom lay the body of Richard Williams, a gunshot wound clearly visible. It looked like suicide, but why? Farhan phoned Isaac, who phoned Forensics and a medical team. This time, Isaac made sure to call Richard Goddard.

  ***

  Richard Williams was dead. Whether suicide or other was immaterial at the present moment. The case into the murders had taken an unexpected turn. Isaac knew that Marjorie Frobisher was the key, but she was still not fully conscious.

  If he insisted, the medical team at the hospital would have been obliged to bring her around for him to ask a few questions. What were the questions, though? Isaac wasn’t sure, and Richard Goddard wasn't much help, constantly on the phone for an update: Who murdered Williams? Is it suicide or murder? What do I tell MacTavish?

  Isaac had few answers, although some suppositions. He could not see Williams as the type to commit suicide, although the weapon that had delivered the fatal shot was next to the body. And if it was suicide, why? Hiding Marjorie Frobisher away at a secret location, protecting her, was at best a minor crime. There had been questions, but with a smart legal mind such as Quinton Scott’s and a solid reason in that the woman’s life was at risk, he would have probably got off with a suspended sentence, even credit from the admiring public for protecting the life of a much-admired celebrity. A true friend, a man worthy of admiration, would be how the public would see it; Isaac too.

  If Williams had not committed suicide, then that meant murder or assassination. Was it a murder intended to look like a suicide? Was it part of a well-orchestrated plan? And where was Linda Harris? Isaac had sent someone to check out her accommodation, but it had been vacated; hurriedly, according to the landlady.

  ‘Paid me before she left,’ the landlady had said. ‘No, I don’t know where she’s gone, but such a lovely woman. Plenty of boyfriends, no doubt, but I never saw any here.’

  Isaac failed to understand why Linda Harris was taking a room in a pleasant house when she dressed as if she could afford a place of her own, but then he did not know much about her. Sure, she was good company, obviously competent and certainly agile in his bed, but who was she? A minor functionary at MI5, or was she capable of more?

  He had to find her, but who knew where she would be? Angus MacTavish, but could he be trusted? Richard Goddard? Isaac ruled him out. He would know little, maybe ask MacTavish, but suspected he would not tell him. The only way he could think of making any headway was to go to the production lot. Williams’ office in town was empty, maybe there was a clue there. He changed his decision about the production lot and headed to Williams’ office.

  ***

  Richard Williams’ office was locked when Isaac arrived. It wasn’t far from the police station, and the traffic was remarkably light for the time of day. The concierge on the ground floor let him in after he had shown his badge. Nothing seemed out of order. Williams’ desk was neat and tidy, a few papers to one side. He reasoned there would be nothing of much interest there.

  Linda Harris’s desk seemed the most obvious. Sitting down on the chair that she and Sally Jenkins had occupied, he opened the desk drawers one by one, starting at the top left. He wore gloves, should have obtained official permission, but time was of the essence.

  Richard Williams was dead, Marjorie Frobisher was under guard, but Isaac knew he was dealing with professionals. If they were determined to tie up loose ends, himself included, they would. No amount of protection would save anyone.

  He thought that if Linda Harris had managed to find out the address at Canary Wharf, she hadn’t used it. Or maybe she had? The doctor at the hospital had said anaphylactic shock. Something she had eaten, but Marjorie
Frobisher would have been particular with what she ate, and the restaurant her meals were coming from was first-class. Surely they wouldn’t have made an error.

  If Linda Harris, MI5, and probably Angus MacTavish had wanted Marjorie Frobisher dead, Isaac reasoned, wouldn’t it have been easier to have killed her down at Canary Wharf? Wendy had been watching, but she had been some distance away. Entry into the building was not too difficult, people were going in and out all the time, residents, tradesmen, people delivering furniture, people taking it away.

  The questions continued to build, yet Isaac could not supply answers. Someone had to know, or maybe there were puzzles within puzzles, questions within questions.

  The contents of the desk offered no help, but Isaac had assumed they would not. If Linda Harris, if that was her name, were a trained professional, she would hardly have left any clues behind. Everything was neat and tidy, and the computer was password locked. Isaac phoned for his people to send down a team, to secure the office and to take the computer and break its password. He thought there would be nothing on it, but it was possible – more of a long shot.

  He realised that Linda Harris was long gone; vanished without a trace, probably out of the country by now.

  ***

  Farhan stayed at Richard Williams’ house until the investigations were concluded and the body removed to the morgue. The initial report from Forensics showed that the gun found at the scene, a Glock 17, did deliver the fatal shot. Farhan had noted the serial number, passed it on to the relevant people to trace the ownership – he had little hope of a result.

  Farhan had been pleased when Gordon Windsor had walked into the house earlier to take charge of the examination of the body. The man had done a good job with Charles Sutherland.

  ‘DI Ahmed,’ Gordon Windsor said later, pulling down the mask covering his face and standing away from the body. He prepared to remove his coveralls, a clear sign that he had completed his work. ‘Clear shot to the head, professional.’

  ‘Murder?’

  ‘There appears to be some attempt at making out it was suicide, but I’d say whoever shot him was disturbed.’

  ‘The back door was open,’ Farhan replied.

  ‘Is that where he exited?’

  ‘He?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘Could be a she, I suppose. Why do you ask? Anyone in mind?’

  Farhan felt no need to elucidate.

  As Williams’ body left the premises in a body bag, Farhan left too. There seemed no reason to stay longer. The gun was off to ballistics to confirm that bullet and gun were related – Farhan saw it as a formality. Fingerprints looked to be unlikely. Initial investigation at the crime scene showed the signs of a professional, which raised the question why the murderer had fled if he or she had been disturbed. Why not just take out the person disturbing them, two for the price of one? More questions, few answers.

  Isaac was drawing a blank as well. He saw no option but to head out to the production lot. The landlady at Linda Harris’s accommodation provided little information, just said that Linda kept to herself, had no men over, and two or three nights a week she never came home at all.

  First, he planned to meet up with Farhan and Wendy in the office; or was he just delaying the inevitable of meeting Jess again. He wasn’t sure. He updated their boss as to what was happening. He said he would be at the meeting as well. Isaac would have preferred that he wasn’t.

  ***

  The weather had turned miserable as Isaac drove back to the office; it matched his mood. He had committed an error of judgement in sleeping with Linda Harris, had possibly given her vital information, and he was bound to be confronted out at the production lot by the one person he wouldn’t be able to lie to.

  Farhan, meanwhile, was in a more upbeat mood. His wife had submitted the papers for divorce, the conditions acceptable. After dividing the assets, more to her as she would take responsibility for the children, he would still be left with enough to put a down payment on a small apartment. Maybe, with Aisha, somewhere better, but that was idle folly.

  She was still a former prostitute, even though now a promising lawyer. How would he explain it to his parents, his extended family? Could it be kept a secret? And his career, so important to him – would it be jeopardised? He knew it would. Even if his family never knew, the police would, and their records were impeccable.

  The police force was egalitarian, accepting of all religions, all colours, all sexual persuasions. A former prostitute married to a detective inspector should not have counted against him, officially that is; unofficially, he knew it would.

  He was aware that eventually he would need to make a decision, but not yet. The inquiry into the two, now three, murders was coming to a climax, he was sure of it. Soon, he would be able to spend time with Aisha. Then he would be able to ascertain if the love between the two of them was real, or whether it was infatuation from him for a liberated, passionate woman, or from her for a reliable, decent man.

  And besides, Farhan had to be honest. He was heading up to detective superintendent at most; she had the possibility of becoming a QC. Would a QC be comfortable with a mid-ranking policeman? He wasn’t sure – time would tell.

  Wendy, feeling better after a few hours in the office on her own, welcomed both Isaac and Farhan on their return to the office. She had prepared some coffee for them, as well as a plate of biscuits. Chocolate, apparently her favourite, as half of them had already been consumed before Isaac and Farhan had a chance to take one.

  Richard Goddard entered soon after, the frown on his forehead all too apparent – the pressure was getting to him. Wendy offered him a coffee; he accepted.

  He felt no need to be discreet. Farhan and Wendy were there, and he wasn’t about to send them out of the room this time. ‘DCI Cook, it looks as if you’ve been sleeping with a murderer again.’

  Wendy looked over at Farhan with raised eyebrows. Farhan just shook his head imperceptibly in return, a clear sign that he didn’t know either what the detective superintendent was referring to. Farhan had known about Linda Harris, but the ‘again’ he did not.

  ‘We’re assuming she’s the murderer,’ Isaac replied. No time for embarrassment, he thought.

  ‘And where is she?’

  ‘No idea, sir.’

  ‘What are the chances of finding her?’

  ‘She appears to have vanished. I was about to ask Constable Gladstone if she can find her.’

  ‘No problems, I can do that,’ Wendy said.

  ‘But where do we look?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘No idea,’ Isaac replied.

  ‘What do you mean, no idea?’ Normally a man who kept his emotions in check, Richard Goddard was clearly showing the early stages of anger. His impending promotion depended on the solving of the murders, yet he didn’t know which solution his superiors wanted. Did they want the culprit, any culprit? What if the killings were sanctioned assassinations? Was he expected to sweep them under the table?

  ‘Marjorie Frobisher seems to be the key,’ Farhan said.

  ‘Farhan’s right,’ Isaac added.

  ‘Then you’d better get over there and talk to her. That’s if she hasn’t been killed in the interim. As a team, your ability to get your key witnesses killed is outstanding. If you were as good at keeping them alive as you are at bedding them, then we would have wrapped this up weeks ago.’ Isaac and Farhan sat sheepishly. Wendy enjoyed the moment. She liked to gossip, although this was not the sort of gossip she could tell Bridget after a few too many drinks.

  With little more to say, Detective Superintendent Goddard left the office.

  For twenty seconds, no one said anything. It was up to Wendy to break the silence.

  ‘Do you want me to look for Linda Harris?’

  ‘She may be difficult to find,’ Isaac said.

  ‘I’ll do my best. Where do I start?’

  ‘Her accommodation, although the landlady won’t be much help.’

  ‘Leave her to me. They alw
ays know more than they admit to; busybodies, all of them.’

  As soon as Isaac had passed over the details, Wendy left the office.

  Farhan and Isaac continued to discuss the case.

  ‘What was Detective Superintendent Goddard referring to when he first came into the office?’ Farhan asked, not expecting an answer.

  ‘I made an error of judgement once before.’ Isaac did not feel the need to elaborate.

  ‘Another Linda Harris?’

  ‘Change the subject.’ An unusually curt reply from Isaac.

  ‘Apologies. If Williams was murdered by Linda Harris, and she bolted out the back door, then who came through the front?’ Farhan asked.

  ‘Good question, and why didn’t they phone the police?’

  ‘They had something to hide?’ Farhan answered rhetorically.

  ‘The only person who would have come in the front door would be Linda Harris.’

  ‘Or the cleaner.’

  ‘We’ve discounted her,’ Farhan said. ‘The one day of the week she doesn’t come. Besides, she would have phoned us.’

  ‘Nobody else to our knowledge had a front door key, apart from Williams, the cleaner, and possibly Linda Harris.’

  ‘Another woman?’

  ‘It’s possible. Williams may have had someone else.’

  ‘Let’s stand back and analyse this,’ Farhan said. ‘Linda Harris we know is MI5.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Is she capable of murder?’

  ‘Unknown, but let’s assume she is.’

  ‘Did she give any indication of that in the time you were with her?’

  ‘No. But what does that mean? We’re not even sure of her name.’

  ‘Let’s assume she is, but not the murderer of Richard Williams.’

  ‘Then she disturbed the assassin.’

  ‘Assassin?’

  ‘Let’s call it that. Who else would feel the need to murder him?’

  ‘Nobody. This means he knew the identity of the mysterious child.’